Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

From the* Litermy World* THE SPIRIT SACRIFICE, A CHIPPEWAY LEGEND. BY CIIARI.EB unman. It was Stidsummer, —and there was a feniblc plague in the wilderness. Many a Chippeway village, on the borders of Lake Superior had been depopulated.— The ohlv band of the great Noilhern na tion which had thus far escaped, was the one whose hunting grounds lay on the Northern shore of the St. Mary’s Iliver. Their principal village stood upon a gen tle promontory overlooking the great Lake, immediately at the head of the Sault or Falls, and at this village the chiefs and warriors of the tribe were assembled in council. Incantations of every possible description had for many days been per formed, and yet nightly tidings were re ceived, showing that the fatal disease was sweeping over the land, like the fires of Autumn over the prairies. The signs in the sky, as well as these tidings, convinc ed the poor Indians that ‘heir days were numbered. It was now the last night of their Council, and they were in despair.— They knew that the plague had been sent upon the earth by the Great Sprit, as a pun ishment for some crime, and they also knew that there was but one thing that could possibly appease his anger. And what was this'* The sacrifice of the most beau tiful girl of her tribe. And such was the decree, that she should enter her canoe, and throwing away her paddle, cast her self upon the waters, just above the Sault. Morning dawned, and loud and dismal beyond compare, was the wail of sorrow which broke upon the silent air. Another Council was held, and the victim for the sacrifice was selected. She was ar, only child, and her mother was a widow, feeble and infirm. They told the maiden of her fate, and she uttered not a repining word. The girls and women of the village flocked around their long-loved companion, and decked her hair and her neck with all the brightest wampum and the most beautiful feathers and shells that could be found in all the tribe. The time appointed for the sacrifice was the sunset hour; and as the day was rapidly waning, the gloom which pervaded the entire village gradually in creased, and it even seemed as if a mur muring tone mingled with the roar of the mighty waterfall. The day had been one of uncommon splendor, and as the sue. de scended to the horizon, a retinue of gor geous clouds gathered around him, and the gieat Lake, whose waters receded to the sky, was covered with a deeper blue than had ever before been seen. All things were now ready, and the In dian maiden was ready for the sacrifice.— In silence was she conducted to her canoe, and loud was the wail of lamentation. It died away ; and now, to the astonishment of all the people, a strange echo came from over the waters. What could it mean'! viuutiias siieucc ensued, ana even the old men listened with fear. And now a louder and a clearer continuation of the same echo breaks upon the air. A speck is seen upon the waters. The sun has dis appeared, and a small canoe is seen rapid ly approaching, as if from the very spot where the orb touched the waters. The song increases; and as the fairy-like ca noe sweeps mysteriously over the watery waste, it is now seen to contain a beautiful being, resembling a girl, clothed in a snow white robe. She is in a standing attitude, her arms are folded, and her eyes are fixed upon the heavens. Her soul is absorbed in a song, of which this is the burden : “ I come from the Spirit land, To appease the Great Spirit, To stay the plague, Ami to save the life of the beautiful Cliippcway.” Onward she came, and her pathway lay directly towards the mighty rapids. With titter astonishment did the Indians look upon this unheard-of spectacle, and while they looked, they saw the canoe and its spirit voyager pass directly into the foam, where it was lost to them forever. And so did the poor Indians escape the plague. The St. Mary is a beautiful riv er : and during the summer time, its shores are always lined with lilies, large, and of a marvellous whiteness; and it is a com mon belief among the Chippeways, that they owe their origin to the mysterious spirit from whose mutilated body they sprang. And so endelli the Legend of the Spirit Sacrifice. THE FORSAKEN. A BUMMER NIGHT’S TALE IN VENICE. “ As those wo love decay, we die in part, String utter sir ngis sever'd from tho heart.” I felt that the last, the only tie that hound me to life, would soon be severed, as I gazed on the hectic cheek and fragile form of my dying cousin, Mary Esdale. She had been, she was still, though the wife of another, the object of my devoted, unchanging love. I had loved her in boy hood, ere the heart comprehended the true nature of the feeling by which it was agi tated—loved her amid the fiery trials of youth; her image had preserved me in a thousand dangers, carried me through temptations, supported me in the hour of sorrow, and cheered me on the couch of sickness; she had been my guardian spirit, my warmest friend, my kindest—best ad viser; but she had never shared the pas sion by which my whole soul was consum ed—she was ignorant of the nature of the affection I cherished for her, and treated me as a fondly-loved brother. Her heart was given to a college companion of her brother. I saw (the eyes of love are keen) the hopelessness of my affection, and smothered the emotions 1 experienced in my own breast. Poor Mary! thou didst never guess the pain thou wert in flicting—didst never suspect the warmth with which thy very shadow was wor shipped by the tall, ungainly boy—the wild untractable youth—the dark, sorrow ful and morose being thy cousin was con sidered, by those who never dreamed of the secret that had worked this transforma tion in his own frank and joyous nature. We were in Venice Mary had been ta ken thither from her native land, in the hope that change of scene would restore her fading health. Vain hope! What i can bind the broken spirit- -heal the crush ed heart—minister to a soul diseased ? We had brought her from her home to die! Each day, as it drew to its close, left Ma ry weaker than the preceding one; her bodily strength was rapidly passing away, whilst the bright flush upon her thin cheek grew blighter, and her large blue eyes shone with almost unearthly lustre. It was evening. Venice, with her sev enty islets, three hundred bridges, noble domes, and marble palaces, lay reposing in the gorgeous splendor of an Italian sunset. The blue waters of the Adriatic were cov ered with boats; numerous vessels were floating on its waves, from the humble bark of the peasant fisherman, to the rich ly decorated gondola of the Venetian no bleman, the latter gliding along with noise less rapidity ; whilst the reflection of the bright lights which the boats always car ry at Ihcir prow, as soon as evening advan ces, appeared in the waters beneath like so many glittering stars. Mary was in j the large balcony of our apartment in the Albergo Favretti. The sea lay out before ! us; its sweet, fresh breeze was sufficient to j fan, without chilling, our beloved charge. | On one side stood the grand ducal palace, on the other II Ponte die Sospire (the j Bridge of Sighs,) and a little to the left St. i Mark’s Tower, from which Gahleo con templated the starry Heavens: but why I does my pen linger thus on the scene ! around 1 Is it that my soul shrinks from j recalling the final scene in the life of one I or Heaven’s purest, as well as fairest crea tures ? Yes, though years have past over this seared heart and furrowed brow, 1 still feel the past as vividly as ever. Though sufficient time has fled to render the hair, once dark and glossy, thin and white—the form once strong and manly, bowed and decrepid—the mind once ener getic, enfeebled and worn out—still the re collection of that evening is as fresh in my memory as if it were but a day old. The anguish, the pain, the desolation of that hour, is as bitterly, as keenly felt, as it was that night in Venice. Mary had that day appeared belter than she had been for some weeks previously; her voice seemed stronger, her step firmer, and her spirit lighter. Henry vainly hoped that she would yet recover —that we should again bear her to England ; but I, alas, saw full well the evanescent nature of the change. To me it seemed but the last effort of expi ring nature. Reclining on alow couch, she gazed with greater animation than usual on the splendid scene below. Henry sat on one side, whilst I lay down on the bal cony at her leet. Our attention rao at tracted by a large gondola, which was ra pidly approaching. The sound of a gui tar came slowly across the water; but the tented canopy, or covered cabin, in the cen tre, effectual)” concealed the performer from our gaze. 1 know not why it was that our attention was so engaged by this par ticular gondola, but a sudden feeling of coldness appeared to creep over my whole frame, as it glided near us. Were 1 inclin to be superstitious, I might imagine that my spirit experienced a fore-knowledge of the blow which was about to crush it— that the coming cloud then cast its shadow on my soul. The Adriatic swarmed with gondolas—almost every boat contained a musician ; then why were we all so intent upon this particular one I why single it out to gaze upon its motions from among the hundreds around it I As the boat drew near, I observed that Mary shuddered, as if the “evening air had chilled her. I raised my eyes anxiously to her face, and in reply to my glance, she said ; “The black awning of that gondola has, to my mind, a funeral appearance; one could almost fancy it the bearer of a death-warrant to some poor captive in yon der state prison.” At this instant the boat lay quite beneath the balcony', and a deep manly voice was heard singing the beauti ful and impassioned verses of Tasso. Hen ry convulsively grasped my arm—we had both at the same instant recognized the voice of Villiers. A woman's voice had now joined in the refrain ;it was Claudine's I hastily turned towards Mary, trusting that her sense of hearing had not been equally acute, when I perceived that her head was resting upon her brother's. She had recognized the well known tones!— The shadow of death lay upon her brow ; all trace of color had faded from her cheeks ; the long dark fringe of her closed eyelids rendering the unatural pallor of her face more apparent. She remained for a few brief secoeds inanimate, when unclosing her beautiful eyes, she fixed them on her brother's face, and convulsively grasping his hand, murmured, “I die forgiving him.” She sank back lifeless; her pure spirit had winged its way to another and a bet ter world. Fifty years ago, Mrs. Washington knit stockings for the general; now there are not fifty ladies in the city who can play that part, and hundreds know not how the apple'gets into the heart of the dumpling. “ Know thyself,” was the re mark of a gentleman to his son, in the course of a parental lecture. “ Thank you, my list of acquaintances is sufficiently large already,” 6aid the as piring youth. “ And the acquisition would be equally profitless,” retorted the father. io©eia l o ß® w &iaai VIEW OF THE BOSTON CUSTOM-HOUSE. We have been permitted to copy the above beautiful view of the Boston Custom House, with the accompanying letter press, from Wheler's Southern Monthly Magazine , for July. i This edifice is one of the most beautiful and durable architectural ornaments of our country. It is situated on India (nearly op-. posite State) street, Boston—a location se lected for its convenience rather than its commanding view. Tne foundation was commenced in 1837. Three thousand piles were first driven, the j whole covering an area of about 14,000 feet. A granite flooring was then laid down upon these, eighteen inches thick, and ce mented in such a manner as to be impervi ous to water. On the east, south and west sides is a shield wall. If 818 YBAWISILim. CONBTAKTINOPL*. BY 0. L. niTSON. No city of the East which now exists has undergone so many vicissitudes of for tune as has Constantinople. It has been besieged four-and-lwenty times and devas tated by fire and pestilence as many more. From the East and the West, every nation when it began to exult in its strength, has turned its longing eyes and its arms to wards this “fair city of the sea.’’ The Greeks and Persians, Bulgarians and Arabs, Romans and Ottomen, besides many others, have pitched their hostile tents about her and girded her with men at arms ; and six ,j-ichicj nerselt up to the sway of foreigners. Since 1543 the crescent in a crimson field has waved above her battle ments, and the golden barges of the sultans have swept fearlessly over the glassy wa ters in which she seems so dreamily to float. The splendid appearance of Constantino ple, from Scutari, Pera, the Marmora, and more particulary from the Bosphorus as you approach from the Black Sea, has been so often so graphically described that I will not myself attempt it; yet I cannot help but confess that the power of that coup d'ail, when one winds along those neighboring banks, or floats rapidly down with the swift current from the Euxine, is thrilling in the extreme, and cannot be seen with out that cale-frio of the soul whose silent happy quiverings are more eloquent than words. From the last position, the city bursts upon the sight just at a sufficient dis tance to lend all the enchantment approved space can give to one of the most pictur esque portions of the globe, seeming a bright crystal vision hanging along the distant horizon, which must recede as you advance, and which can never be reached. It is not that Constantinople stands on an elevated point of land surrounded by the smoothest of waters which reflect her gor geous seraglio, gardens, mosques and mina rets,—it is not that she is beautiful in her self, or has on her opposing shores, fair vil lages and loved classic spots, sacred from their antiquity, hallowed by those geniuses who have clothed them anew for our mem ories—but all of these combined ; and when the mellow morning or evening light rests on her marble domes, her gilded spires, her green trees and fountains, and in theglovv ing and gently undulating bosom of the Marmora and the Golden Horn, it so blends and harmonizes the whole, that when once beheld it becomes, like the scenery of cara Genoa, as an inspiration of the soul, and with it will live forever. If New York city stood on a lofty range of land rising gradually from the Battery, and had her highest point crowned with a hundred domes besides the church tow ers which now adorn her—if the loved Ho boken was as elevated as memorable Brook lyn, it would, on approaching her from the harbor, remind one forcibly of Constantino ple ; for the East River would answer for the Golden Horn, and the Hudson, for the Marmora, or the entrance to it, which ap pears hut narrow when first seen from the Bosphorus. When the poet, the painter, the enthusi astic lover of the beautiful, descending from the Black Sea, first catches a glimpse of this time-extolled panorama, which, indepen dent of its intrinsic charms has had an imperishable halo thrown around it by some of the most gifted pens of our own age, let him land at a lovely spot on the left hank where a curious structure, reminding one of The cellar is much cut up by thick walls 1 and arches, required to support the immense 1 weight of the internal stone work. The | first story open to the light of the day is i the basement. In addition to the thick ! wall partitions separating the rooms, two 1 granite columns, four feet in diameter, and eight, t\vo feet in diameter, are distributed . through the rooms as supporters. Besides the two rooms for the night inspectors, there is a room for the engine used to pro -1 pel the fans by which the heated air is forced up. The remainder of the rooms j are for storage. The main feature of the second story is the grand entrance vestibule, or rotunda, fifty-eight by sixty feet, formed by twelve granite columns, four feet in diameter.— from the north and south sides rise two grand stair-cases, fifteen feet wide at the a pagoda, rises near the water's edge, and here in its wooded walks let him spend his days enjoying a vision of beauty which it is painful to destroy. But if like the young girl who also wished to see the follies of life, her mother had seen and was advising her to avoid, he chooses to be disenchanted, he can proceed on to the city itself, and wa ding through the narrow and filthy streets, can be successful without an effort, for the gardens of the Seraglio which occupy her most attractive and alluring site, he will not be allowed to inhabit though he may ardently desire it. Should the magnifi cence of the mosques, the beauties of the fountains, the brightness of the women's eyes, and the outlines of their fine features perfectly well seen through their very thin i muslin veils or bandages, surpass his ex -1 pectations and enthrall him for a moment, the muddy alleys, the new dwellings, the snarling dogs, will act as a counter charm, ’ and fortunately, perhaps alley an enthu siasm which might make a too sensitive man as seemed the learned and eloquent Paul.— Boston Evening Gazette. •Dl3 ui Da aIT IE a- For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. ROSE HILL CEMETERY. Macon, Ga., June 20th, 1849. Dear Richards: Have you ever wander ed among the tombs in “Rose Hill Ceme tery” ? Have you ever reclined beneath the thick foliage of its forest trees, and lis tened to the rushing waters of the turbid Ocmulgec"? Have you ever gathered the flower* which grow in wild luxuriance on its gentle hills and in its shady dells ? Have you ever strayed along its tortuous paths, meditating on the sad emblems of departed joys 1 If you have not, then you have yet to visit one of the most beautiful spots in beautiful Georgia. But come with me this pleasant evening, and with minds attuned to serious reflections, let us goto this “field of God, sown with the seeds of the resurrection.” As we enter its sombre gateway, and walk along the broad avenue to the left, we see the Odd Fellows’ enclosure, where rest their broken links of friendship. Rich evergreens rise from the enamelled turf, and throw their gentle shadows athwart the sculptured marble. To the light there stands a sim ple block of the purest white : its emblem, a severed bud, tells us of one “ who came, and was not.” Further on, through the mossy covering of time, we may read of one, radiant in beauty—blushing with the joys of life—who looked for long years of happiness, but who was, in the twinkling of an eye, clasped in the embrace of death. Her’s was a melancholy end. Her form was not wasted by disease—nor the rich tints that mantled her cheek, paled by sick ness. The flames, in lambent streams, consumed the beauteous casket, and her spirit went up to the God of love. A little to the right, on a time-worn stone, you may read the whole history, life—its be ginning and its end—the “Preface” and the “ Finis,” with the sad tale of three score and ten, all laid out before you, as follows ; “ Natus in Hibernia —mortuus cst, in Maconia, Et hie jacet.” “ Earth's highest station ends in ‘ Here he lies,’ And ‘ Dust to Dust,’ concludes her noblest song.” Young. But here are new-made graves. The earth is yet fresh with the tears of sorrow, and those who lie so still and cold beneath, ere long since, like us, trod this region of mortality, and drank the golden day.— With them the bitterness of death is past; 1 they have tasted what that is which so bottom, and seven at the top, terminating in smaller vestibulesabove. On the north east side of the grand vestibule are the as sistant treasurer's apartments. On this floor are apartments for other officials. In the third story is a great business room, s.xty-two by fifty-eight feet, lighted from the dome principally. The dome is supported by tweve marble fluted columns, twenty-nine and a half feet high. Above them rises the dome thirty-two feet more. The lower circuinfrence of the dome is one hundree and ninety-five feet—at the eye of the dome, fifty-six and a half feet. The eye is furnished with abeautifully variaga ted stained glass, which lights one of the most splendid halls, of the Corinthian ord er, in the United States. The cost of this edifice was about one million of dollars. The material is the much perplexes the human thought, of which we all know so little —of which we all must know so much. These new-made graves are eloquent with admonition. But let us walk along. None are too young to die. These five short graves, un urned, have each their voice of warning to the young. That tall monument marks the resting-place of a herald of the Cross, the servant of the Most High, the messen ger of love, who, having fought a good fight, and finished his work, went home to his reward. When the light of eternity shall dim the paler light of this world, he will present himself before the Judge of all the earth, with the white-robed souls of those he led to the fountain of redemption. But come with me to yonder shady nook, ami sit down beneath the wide-spreading branches of that old oak. Life and death are all around us. Life sows, and when the grain is full, Death puts in his sickle and gathers an abundant harvest. It can not be that the All-wise Creator made man a living soul, only as a link in the chain of animated existence. That soul, burn ing with immortal lava, often soars away from earth to its high birth-place. There is something more for us, than to sleep the sleep of an eternity in the cold grave. Do you remember what quaint Sir Thomas Browne says, in his “Religio Medici:’"— “ When I take a full view and circle of myself, without this reasonable moderator and equal piece of justice, death, I do con ceive myself the miserablest person ex tant ; were there not another life that I hope for, all the vanities of this world should not entreat a moment’s breath from me ; could the devil work my belief to im agine I could never die, I would not out live the very thought.” Do you see that mound of fresh earth 1 There the fading sun of yesterday threw its mellow light upon an open grave—a band of weeping mourners stood around, their hearts big with the agony of sudden sorrow; they were burying a young mo ther.* The stricken husband, paralyzed with the intensity of his grief, saw the ob ject of his tenderest affection given to the grave. The man of God prayed fervent ly, and Nature echoed a response. His thrilling words brought sympathizing tears irom the deep fountain of human affection. How solemnly sounded the words of that incomparable prayer in the burial service : “Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery! He cometh up and is cut down like a flow er; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and nev er continueth in one state. “ In the midst of life we are in death : of whom may we seek for succor, but of thee, 0 Lord! who for our sins art justly displeased. “ Yet, O Lord God, most holy ! O Lord, most mighty! O, holy and most merciful Saviour! deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.” Every soul was stilled—every sound hushed—and the spirit was borne away on the incense of prayer, to the bright world above. One year ago, a bridal party, full of hap piness, with hearts throbbing with antici pated delight, started on a tour to the North. A few days after their arrival in one of the Northern Cities, while the cup of pleasure was glowing for them, death came and laid low the father of the bride.* The message of sorrow was sent after them, and the cup of pleasure was embit- ‘ tered. The bride returned to our midst, i clad in the sable garb of wo. Two weeks since, in the same mansion, there was ano *Sar*b, wife of Win. H. Bray, Esq., aged 21 Quincy graniie, hammered. The style of architecture is the Grecian Doric. The length of the building is one hundred and forty-five feet; its depths, omitting porti cos, seventy five; its height, ninety-five. Externally, thirty-two fluted columns are presented—each five feet four inches in di ameter, and thirty-two feet high. Os these, sixteen are three-quarter columns. The porticos are ten feet deep by sixty-six in width, each with six columns. The entab latures are ornamented with triglyh friezes and multule cornices. The porticos are reached by a flight of eleven stone steps. Throughout the whole building the floor ing is of stone. The entire roof is tiled. In most of the rooms the ceiling is arched. About the whole building there is very lit -1 tie combustible material. Amrai B. Young was the builder. ther marriage festival, and the bridal party left home with the same glowing hearts as the former. The fount from which they aie now quaffing the sweet waters of joy, must be turned to gall. The first bride is the young mother they yesterday laid in the tomb, and by her death, desolation will overwhelm the heart of the second. The death of one so young, so lovely, and so cherished—of one around whose path were gathered the bright-hued flowers of hope— whose cheek was smiling with health, and whose eye was lit up with the light of her soul, is one of those mysterious messages from God that will be heard. The feeble infant received no kiss of maternal affec tion. Life and death met together, and each one set its seal. That surely is an awful blow, which sunders the tics of mor tal love How vain it is for friends to gather around and attempt to stay the sor rowing tears. They will gush forth, when the loved and the beautiful are snatched from our grasp—when the sweet tone and cheering smile fade away from the earth “like a dream of the night.” That be reaved and heart-broken husband, in the luxury of his wo, may call to mind the language of Beattie: “ No more thy soothing voice my anguish cheers; Thy placid eyes with smiles no longer glow, My hopes to cheri-h. and allay my fears ; ’Tis meet that I should mourn: flow forth afresh my tears.” But let him remember, “Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of Death.” C. LEPROSY IN AFRICA. The awful disease of leprosy still exists in Afi.ca. Whether it be the same lepro sy as that mentioned in the Bible, I do not know; but it is regarded as perfectly incu rable, and so infectious that no one dares to come near the leper. In the south of Africa there is a large lazar-house for lep ers. It is an immense space, enclosed by a very high wall, and containing fields which the lepers cultivate. There is only one entrance, which is strictly guarded. When any one is found with the marks of leprosy upon him, he is brought to this gate and obliged to enter in, never to re turn. No one who enters in by that aw ful gate is ever allowed to come out again. Within this abode of misery there are mul titudes of lepers in all stagesof the disease. Dr. llelbeck, a missonary of the church of England, from the top of a neighboring hill, saw them at work. He noticed two jiarticularly, sowing peas in the field. The one had no hand; the other had no feet —those members being wasted away by the disease. The one who wanted the hands was carrying the other who wanted the feet upon his back; and he, again, carried in his hands the bag of seed, and dropped a pea every now and then, which the other pressed into the ground with his foot, and so they managed the work of one man between the two. Ah ! how little we know of the misery of this world. Such is the prison house of disease. But you will ask, who cares for the souls of the hapless inmates ? Who will venture to enter there 1 Who will forsake father and mother, houses and land, to carry the message of a Saviour to these poor lepers ! 1 Two Moravian Missionaries, impelled by ; a divine love for souls, have chosen this lazar-house as their field of labor. They entered there never to come out again.— 1 And, I am told, as soon as they die, other I Moravians are quite ready to fill their place, j Ah! my dear friends, may we not blush’ and be ashamed before God, that we re- 1 deemed with the same blood, ami ta| by the same spirit, should yet be so uI these men in vehement, heart-consul love to Jesus and the souls of men. J Cheyne. BEAUTY, No woman can be handsome by J force of feature alone, any more than | can be witty only by the help of sp e J Nor is she capable of being beautiful J is not incapable of being false. It is, J thinks, a low and degrading idea of | sex, which was created to refine the J and soften the cares of humanity, bvl most agreeable participation to eonsidertn merely objects of sight. She who takes I care to add to the natural graces of her J son any excelling qualities,may be alloj still to amuse as a picture,but not to triun as a beauty. Adam, in relating to the; gel the impressions he felt upon seeing Ki at her first creation, docs not represent h as a Grecian Venus, by her shape or f( tures, but by the lustre of her mind, whi shone in them and gave them the power charming. — Steele. J. G. WHITTIER. Whittier gave early indications of potl powers. Several of his juvenile poefl having forind their way into the newsp* pers and magazines of the day, attract!* the attention of some literary gentlem* who appreciated the merit of the prodol tions, and resolved to make their author I visit, to offer their assistance in introj cing the “Quaker poet” to literary notorjß ety. Accordingly they took a conveyatJ that soon set them down in the picturesqui town of Weare, N. H., the residence of tin young poet. With some difficulty the; found the dwelling of Whittier, and wen ushered into the best room of the house b; the mother, to whom they made know their desire to see her son. All this time young Whittier was worl ing away at the certainly rather unpoetic; business of cleaning out the hog-sly. H plied his shovel with right good will, total ly unconscious of the honor that awaite him. Judge of his astonishment, when Lizz; ; his sister, came running from the house -and informed him “ that it was full o j very great people, who were waiting t 1 see him.” “What shall l do 1” cried the youn poet, in agony. Run, Lizzy, and get mi boots, while 1 wash me in the brook.” The bools were brought, but the bare wet feet of Whittier refused to enter. A: length, after a deal of tugging, one war j drawn on, but oh, horrors! the other i would not go on, neither would the fits i one come off. ; “ A pretty looking spectacle I shall pre sent for their inspection,” murmured Whit ! tier, as with one boot in his hand and the other on his foot, he entered the house. But in a short time, the flattering wordsol | Iris visitors made him quite forget the awk j wardness of his attire. —Madison Visitor. Reverence your superiors. —Every boilvl admits the propriety of this advice, k.l there is one little dfficulty in its practicaH observance—very few people can find theam 1 “ superiors,” though it is ten to one theyß j can find yours without the least trouble B I Suntr.in .Sunc XXBSI THE IMPORTANT SEARCH. i “ Your heart shall live, that seek God.”—Pslaia. 1 lziz. 32. The Psalm before us was doubtless pen-J i ned by David in a season of sore affliction. Wc have in it a statement of his trying case, and the assurance he felt that God would hear and deliver him. The words selected as the subject of our meditation, hold out to us abundant encouragement to wait upon God and keep his way. Observe What is required oj us in a icay of duty. To seek God. This implies that we have lost him ; by sin we have lost his pres j ence, his likeness, his friendship, and bis favor. Wc cannot be happy until we have found him. Its object. “God.” It is the mark of a wicked man, that he does not inquire after God, nor feel desirous of seeking him ; but it is the evidence of a Christian, that be seeks God. This is the noblest pursuit in which we can possibly engage. We must ; seek an experimental knowledge of him, a j firmer reliance on him, nearer communion j with him, and greater devotedness to him; his favor, his pardon, his grace, and his ’ guidance. Are not these worth possessing I Its scenes. Where is he to be sought T He has not left us in ignorance respecting ! this matter. We must seek him in Chris! as the way; with the word as our rule,.the■ Spirit as our guide, and glory as our end. He is not far from us in nature, and in providence, but in the word he is very near unto us. Seek him in the oracles of; truth ; here he is set forth clearly and ful ly. Seek him in his house; here he is exhibited in all the grandueur of his maj esty, the depth of his condescension, the loviltness of his character, the plenitude of his grace, and the nature of his require ments. Seek him.at the m,er.cy-seat; here he sits to commune with you ; the Spirit is ready to help your infirmities, and Jesus bids you welcome. Seek him at all times, you can never come out of season. Its manner. The coldness of formality should never he united with the warmth of devotion. The fire in the temple, of our. hearts must never go out; but there wHI’ be great danger of its burning very dimly unless we stir it up in the cultivation of a spiritual and devotional frame. God miifJ be sought with our whole heart; all its powers and passions must be employ'd}; we must seek him simply in his own way. and dependently, on his own strength